


Not the apple of my eye

by cicak



Series: Episode fics for Hannibal S2 [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Bottom Hannibal, Choking, Deepthroating, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Spoilers for 2x09, throatfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 01:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1533242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a corpse on the table and Will Graham has a look in his eyes like he has finally woken up.<br/>A debt repaid clears the air. <br/>And Hannibal, Hannibal is overcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the apple of my eye

There is a corpse on the table and Will Graham has a look in his eyes like he has finally woken up.

A debt repaid clears the air. 

The old Will Graham would have crumpled, or at least would have shown some kind of shock. At least a touch of the sweet pulse of panic, or the tremor of some kind of moral crisis, but instead he stands there and looks perfect and still like a painting, like all Hannibal’s Christmases come at once. There is a touch of blood round his edges, a few dots on his neck he had missed when cleaning off. He’s wearing the coat he bought to mess with Hannibal, and there are the remains of a man lying on his dining room table. His walnut table with the grain so perfect he nearly wept when he found it in a shop in Hartford, and something in him wishes the varnish was gone so he could get the blood right into the grain.   
The man was a gift, a test, a shibboleth that Will had spoken as he emerged from his chrysalis as something more perfect than the sum of his delectable parts.

The table, and the man on it lies between them. One of them needs to bend to the left or right, so as to finish this, in one way or other.

This new man who has gestated inside Will Graham instead steps onto the table, and walks with purpose over the man he beat to death with his own hands, the hands that are encrusted with blood. Hannibal is hit with the truth that Will had changed his shirt, but didn’t wash his hands. 

And Hannibal, Hannibal is overcome. 

He takes Will’s hand and helps him down from the table, pulls him in and breathes in the curve of his neck. Takes his hand and looks. He sees evidence, mingled DNA, swelling, the stiffness of a bruised and abused joint. He raises Will’s hand to his mouth, and holding Will’s steely gaze, consumes the evidence.  
He would have liked to have been gentle and kissed each knuckle like a lover, or tear open the hand like a killer, but instead he is overcome with the lust of tainting, of ruining a beautiful, perfect thing. He kisses and sucks sloppily on the delicate skin that lies over Will’s bones, feels the sticky coagulation and clag of platelet formations. Knows they are unfractalable, that they are as imperfect as he is, but imagines that everything Will does follows the golden ratio, from the turn of his mouth to the hum of his pulse to the way his knees buckle. Hannibal is too aroused to do much but give into his basest needs. To give into Will, his beautiful creation.

No father could be prouder, not even the most heavenly father himself could love his creation more than Hannibal does in that moment. Will remains steely, anger stretched over bone and layered with hate and sinew and new skin and other people’s blood. Hannibal looks up along the angles of his body, light breaking over his zygoma and catching the faintly pink tinge of his mouth. He blinks, and kicks Will’s feet out from underneath him. Will drops to his back with a crack that likely hurt, and Hannibal is then over him, arching and taking his mouth without a standing invitation, expecting to be accepted. Will’s arms come up, his mouth parts, and well, he has eaten Hannibal’s offerings before, but now Will is consuming him, his mucus and epithelials and the exhaled carbon monoxide, a little bit of a poison edge to the gift of DNA. Will kisses him back from the edge, back from his relentless need to consume, to take, to conquer. Doesn’t so much give himself up but fights himself back to parity, rolls Hannibal to his side to face him, and wraps their limbs together to become a singular beast.  
When Hannibal is almost nearly undone from warmth and proximity and rutting, Will smiles, still wild around the edges, and stands. He pulls Hannibal up to him, and then carefully, so carefully, nudges Hannibal to lie on the table, his feet towards the corpse’s head. It is a squeeze to be there, to lie next to the boy he sent to kill Will, that boy who is now the body Will killed with his own hands.   
Hannibal lies as if a corpse himself, and Will smiles, bends over, his spine a great coiled snake ready to strike, and bites his mouth until it is bloody, and then kisses the blood so as to spread it around him. He undoes buttons carefully while tearing him apart. He strokes Hannibal’s throat just a shade too hard, feeling the cartilage and bone and the centre of human expression, but doesn’t cut the airway. Just feels his way around the architecture and engineering of Hannibal’s throat.

Hannibal closes his eyes, and hears the heavy clink of steel-on-steel against leather, and the sound of Will disrobing and withdrawing. He feels the soft touch of the head of Will’s cock against the delicate skin of his closed eyelids. Feels Will take a handful of his hair and rub his dick through it, and imagines Will can feel the difference between his blond and the creep of seasoning into his colouring. He imagines Will jacking himself into his hair until he comes over his face, and imagines a single drop landing in the notch of his collar like a miniature pearl.   
Instead, Will puts his hands under Hannibal’s armpits and heaves him up six inches, until Hannibal’s head is hanging over the end, and when he opens his eyes all he can see is Will’s beautiful, enormous dick straight in front of him. 

He hears Will speak, voice calm and amused, like this is something they are known to do. “I’m going to fuck your throat, Doctor Lecter. Don’t take it personally. You did force an ear down mine, after all.”  
Hannibal opens his mouth and the angle is perfect. He barely gags, barely splutters. He imagines, through the collection of thick mucus and the blissful loss of all senses, that Will hadn’t done this before, but was just perfect enough to calculate the angle. Will takes no time in setting a punishing rhythm, a hard thrust in, a slow, agonising pull out, a pause to admire what Hannibal imagines must be a beautiful sight, before thrusting back in, a slow push this time, holding it so deep and so long, long fingers stroking the outside of his throat as he screws into the abused passage so desperately that Hannibal feels the silent tidal rush of an impending blackout, before pulling out again, letting Hannibal grab one clear breath, before plunging back in, out, in, hold, hold, hold, and out, until he screws in a final time, and Hannibal groans and that is in, the vibrations setting off a chain reaction and Will empties himself into the gnawing pit of Hannibal’s stomach. 

He pulls out and steps back. Helps Hannibal off the table, away from the dual crime scenes of the cooling corpse and the abuse of his mouth. Kisses Hannibal gently, so gently, and strokes his cock the way he strokes a beloved pet. Hannibal is still gasping, and the moment of stillness before he comes is when he sees straight into the atomic bonds of Will Graham, and knows him once again, understanding rushing back as his pleasure rushes out, eyes screwed shut and feeling like the soft flesh that contains him is breaking open.

Will takes him to the shower, climbs in with him, and holds him like he’s the only one who needs support. Kisses him beneath the spray with a desperation that says that they’re in this together, and washes the blood from both of their skins like baptism. Gentles one leg in front of the other until they’re both in bed, and holds him, hair and skin damp and fresh and the whole of him newly born, a creature perfect beneath the sheets. 

They wake together, and there is dust dancing on the sunbeams and a smell in the air that says murder and a warmth in Will’s eyes that says no going back.

**Author's Note:**

> [cicaklah.tumblr.com](http://cicaklah.tumblr.com)


End file.
